


anthem of the combustion engine

by apricae



Category: Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Slice of Life, The Skeld (Among Us)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricae/pseuds/apricae
Summary: The Skeld has its own sort of song.Nic tends the engines, and learns the rhythm of life on board.
Relationships: White & Black (Among Us)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	anthem of the combustion engine

The Skeld has its own sort of song. When day 200 in transit has passed, Nic likes to think they know this tune by heart - the hum in the engines vibrate through their bones, set a buzzing in their spine, a beautiful melody sung by a space-whale of metal and grease. 

They can spend hours sitting with their back to the engine housing, feeling the thrum of the dual thrusters that powers their home through the mazes of stars and planets and nebulae; the Skeld protects its crew, the crew protects the Skeld. Whenever the tune shifts, a rattling mixed into the hum, Nic runs to storage to fetch fuel to feed the engines, hauling heavy plastic containers through the halls, giving sweat and strained muscles in exchange for the Skeld’s unceasing endurance.

While eating in the mess hall, they like to thank the Skeld for sparing some of its energy to warming Nic’s soup, cooking Nic’s bread.

Sometimes, everyone sits by the central table, crewmates squeezed in on blue-plastic benches, thigh-to-thigh, shoulder-to-shoulder, and they talk. Rik with the red suit tells funny stories and Wil chimes in with clever remarks every so often, and everyone laughs. Elo, yellow helmet off and red hair perfectly neat, shares space-chatter picked up on the comms during the day. Kia lets them know that the new crops are growing so well, so well, maybe they’ll have fruit soon. That gets everyone excited - to have the Skeld nurture sweet fruit in addition to the high-exchange plants Kia tends with her gentle hands every day in the oxygen bay, that would be a blessing. That would be a blessing indeed. 

Nic sleeps, and dreams of orange juice and wires. 

Morning and night means nothing on the Skeld. There is only hours, numbers on the wall-clock counting away the time spent traversing the endless void. Lights come on to simulate diurnal rhythm, to get the sleeping crew awake when it’s time. Flickering soft fluorescence greets Nic each morning, and steel-covered darkness keeps them safe each night. In the bunk above, Cas' deep, steady breathing provides counterpoint to their own heartbeat. It’s comfort. 

_Why do you want the bottom bunk,_ Cas had asked when they boarded, and Nic sat down on the bottom bunk, claiming it as theirs. Their smile had been wry then, wry and a little shy, not yet certain of their place in the living machinery of the crew. 

_Hot air rises,_ Nic had said. _I like to stay cool._

 _Physics to explain your choice of bed. I think we'll get along well,_ Cas had said, grinning, and they had laughed together for the first time. That was day 1. It’s been many nights and many days since then, with Nic sleeping in the bottom bunk, and Cas up by the ceiling, the two of them cocooned in the quiet. 

During the day, Nic hauls fuel and tightens bolts and aligns thrusters and replaces wire, working until their hands are aching and their suit is oil-smeared and their fingers are pinched bloody. It’s magnificent. The song becomes a symphony, all creaking metal and beautiful combustion. 

Doc scolds them for it. _Wear your gloves,_ she says, _You’ll burn yourself._ Her voice is annoyed, but her face is… Fond, maybe. Happy? Nic is never quite sure, but they know that the ship’s doctor isn’t angry, not really. She scans and takes blood and patches cuts and smears cooling gel on the bruises and sends them off with a scoff and a smile. 

Nic gets burns and scrapes and once even a rib fracture from trying to squeeze in-between the engine and the wall to reach a faulty fuel line. It hurts and hurts, but it’s the price to be paid for traveling where living beings aren’t meant to go. They sit on too-hot metal pipes and eat too-hot noodles from a paper cup, smiling all the while, humming with the engines. 

They go to bed, satisfied with a day’s work of perfecting the burning anthem of raw power; they turn in against the wall, the song continuing beneath their shirt, beneath their skin, beneath their soul - singing flame, singing life.


End file.
